


Should Have

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10422420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: My headcanon about how Season 3 should have started.





	1. Chapter 1

He was expecting her to be home. He was expecting… he doesn’t know what he was expecting.

He was _not_ expecting to be sitting on her porch swing, beverage resting on his knee, waiting for her to return.

He should have called. Should have at least texted. Should have…

Should have done a lot of things.

Should have given her more of an explanation for his departure beyond the hastily-scrawled note he left for her.

He looks down at his hands, thankful he no longer sees the blood on them. He knows he needed to get away from here; knows he did the right thing for himself.

He just isn’t sure if it was the right thing for _them._ He should have told her he needed some time. Should have sought out her advice. Should have...

Deep down, he suspects she knows his reasons, but he should have at least given her the courtesy.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at it, silent in his hand. He presses the button and the lock screen photo appears. It's of the two of them. He knows every pixel of the photo he has gazed upon it so often.

He thinks about how she could have cancelled his line. How she could have sold the cabin (she didn’t; he was there earlier. It was cleaner than he’d left it, and Katrina’s few belongings had been removed). How he could have done so much better for her. _Should_ have done so much better for her.

His partner. The only person who truly understands him.

He hopes she still does. Hopes she will forgive him for everything.

Hopes she comes home soon.

He takes a sip of his drink, shifts his bottom on the seat. The swing creaks.

A car appears, and he realizes he has no idea what type of vehicle she is driving now. Her Jeep was surely beyond repair, and he hopes that the then-mysterious _Insurance Company_ she mentioned was able to adequately compensate her for the loss.

The car keeps driving. This is a quiet street, so there isn’t much traffic. He looks at his phone again, checking the time, thinking wistfully for a moment about his father’s pocket watch and how it was supposed to become his.

An SUV rounds the corner. It appears to be a newer vehicle, and he thinks he can see a small, dark shape behind the wheel. His ramrod-straight back straightens further as his body tenses with anticipation. His heartbeat speeds up, he begins to feel a trifle sweaty, and suddenly feels the need to empty his bladder. He blinks, curious. In his time as a soldier, he’s never truly experienced the “flight” side of the “fight-or-flight” reaction. He grips the seat of the swing with his free hand, willing himself to stay put and take whatever welcome she gives him.

He is prepared for anger. He even expects her to strike him, and will take such treatment without complaint.

What he fears is dismissal. If she tells him to go, he will be heartbroken.

If she ignores him entirely, he will be devastated beyond repair.

He doesn’t know if she noticed him on her porch when she drove up or not. Her quick, efficient footsteps on the front walkway indicate that she has – he knows she would generally go in the side door otherwise.

“What. The _hell_?”

He sets his drink aside and stands, waiting. Her face – was she always so beautiful? – is a mask of hurt and anger with relief hiding in the background.

“Crane, what the hell?” she repeats, louder, stomping up the steps.

Her hair is shorter. She is dressed more formally, in a blazer and trousers instead of a leather jacket and jeans. He doesn’t see her badge anywhere.

She marches up to him and throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

Now he is truly befuddled. He knows she is angry, but she is holding him so fiercely he can hardly breathe. So he does the only thing he can do: He returns her hug, wrapping his long arms around her back, bending down to lay his cheek on top of her head.

Her hair still smells the same. This is a comfort.

Then, just as suddenly as she grabbed him, she pulls back and punches him in the shoulder. Hard. “You can’t just leave!” she yells. “You can’t just _run off_ like… like we don’t have a _world to save_!” She stalks to the door, unlocks it, and opens it. “Inside,” she orders. “I’m not done yelling at you, but I’m not going to do it out here where all the neighbors can see.”

Without a word, he steps inside, leaving his drink out on the small table beside the swing.

He stands, waiting while she removes her blazer, takes off her shoes, and otherwise does those little end-of-day things one does. There is tension in her movements, an abruptness that was never there before, and he attributes it to her well-deserved anger at him.

“Sit down already,” she snaps over her shoulder.

He sits, perching on the seat of her couch without reclining against it.

She strides back over, bottle of beer in one hand (she’s too mad to offer him one), and plops down in the recliner. She takes a long pull from the bottle, and he watches her throat move as she swallows the cold beverage. “Your phone broken?”

Addressed with a direct question, he can only squeak, “No.” He doesn’t ask her why _she_ didn’t try contacting _him_. He knows why.

“I kept paying for your line in the hopes that you’d use it to contact me.” She angles her head at him. “Remember me? Your partner?”

“Lieutenant, I…”

She holds up one finger, perfectly mimicking something she has seen him do countless times, and he closes his mouth. He is abundantly aware that her gesture is very calculated.

“You don’t get to talk yet,” she says, then takes another drink. “So. All that talk about ‘tending our bond’ and ‘fighting together’ and 'choosing to forge your fate with me' was, what? All bullshit then? More pretty words to make me trust you again?”

“I—”

“And then you _LEAVE ME. LIKE EVERYONE ELSE I LET CLOSE TO ME!_ ” She is shouting now. She slams the bottle on the table, stands, and turns away from him so he won’t see the tears collecting in her eyes.

Crane hangs his head, looking at the little puddle of beer on the coffee table that jumped out of the bottle on impact. Absently, he wishes to reach out and wipe it up, knowing it will leave a mark, but he does nothing.

He knows she is crying. He’s made her cry, and he will never forgive himself for that. Nor will he forgive himself for breaking his promises to her.

“Hmph. Partner,” Abbie huffs, still facing away from him. He can see her reach up and wipe her cheek. “You don’t. Leave. Your partner.”

“I am sorry.” It is all he can manage. His throat is tight, his eyes stinging. Words, ever his companions, never failing him, have fled.

“I once said my faith in you is my greatest weakness,” she quietly comments, looking at a picture of Sheriff Corbin on a shelf. “I… I let you in… as close as I’ve let anyone. And you still _left._ ” She sighs and turns to face him again, no longer caring if he sees her tears. “I get it. I really do. I totally understand why you had to get the hell out of Dodge.” She steps closer to him, and he stares, wide-eyed, unable to look away. “But you need to learn to think about someone other than your damn self, Crane! Your… arrogance, your selfishness has gotten you – gotten _us_ – into so much trouble already! We have an _apocalypse_ to stop!”

She is not telling him anything untrue. She is not telling him anything he hasn’t figured out for himself while on this long journey. “I know. You are absolutely correct. As always.”

“Damn skippy I am!” she says. “Jeez, how many times have I been right and you’re just _now_ figuring this out?”

He says nothing. Because what can he possibly say?

“So you left. Fine. Like I said, I get that. But you couldn’t call? Or text? Just to let me know you were all right?” She stops herself, holding up her hands. “Okay, I know you weren’t exactly all right. But just the knowledge that you were _alive_ would have been good.”

He nods, his head still bowed.

“And it never occurred to you to contact me to see how _I_ was doing?” she asked. “Never thought, ‘Gee I wonder how Miss Mills is faring in the wake of all that has happened’? Never even wondered _what_ I was doing?”

“I am a coward,” he mutters. “There is no excuse I can give that will explain my actions.”

“Yeah, you’ve gone a bit far for that,” she agrees. “It’s been nearly a year, Crane! Do you know what can happen in that amount of time? I could have had a _baby_ and you wouldn’t have known.” He looks up sharply, first at her face, then her stomach, then back to her face, his expression somewhat panic-stricken. “I didn’t, but I could have.” He drops his head again. She knows that particular example was a low blow, _very_ low, but she needed to drive the point home.

“You know what the worst part was, Crane? Do you want to know what kept me awake almost every night, more than worrying about my training or Jenny or the apocalypse?”

He shakes his head once.

She sits on the couch beside him, and he turns to look at her. She stares directly into his eyes and says, “I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.” She leans closer. “You could have been dead in a ditch somewhere, or worse, _almost_ dead, and there was no way I would know. I lived in fear that one day my phone would ring and it would be the police department from, oh, some rinky-dink town in northern Wisconsin, asking me if I knew an Ichabod Crane, telling me I was his ‘In case of emergency’ contact and I should get on the next flight to come and _identify the body_.” Her voice is low and distant, almost cold.

That’s how he knows how much his absence – not his absence, but his isolation – has upset her. She has retreated behind her formidable walls again and put on her mask of calm.

“I’m so sorry, Abbie,” he whispers, his voice hitching on the words as he lets his own floodgates open, the gates holding back the guilt he’s been keeping bottled up over these months. The guilt that constantly told him to call her, text her, send her a photo of where he was at the time. It pours out of him in a wave of remorse, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he reaches for her, wrapping his arms around her once again, but this time tucking his face into her neck. “I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, but… but I hope… in time…”

Slowly, Abbie puts her hand on Crane’s head, noticing for the first time that his hair is much shorter than it was when she last saw him. She makes a mental note to ask about it later – she has visions of him standing in front of a mirror in some dank gas station bathroom with the knife that killed Katrina in his hand, using it to angrily saw at his hair – but she’ll find out for certain what the story is. Later.

“I just couldn’t… I thought I needed to be alone… thought _you_ needed a… a break from me as well…” His voice is muffled.

“You made that call on your own, did you?” she asks, her voice gentler now. Her other hand is holding his back now, and he is still clinging to her, his long back bent nearly in half as he hunches down to her shorter height.

She feels him nod against her shoulder. “I was wrong. I know this. I’m sorry… so sorry…” he answers, his words descending into semi-incoherent mumbled apologies.

She finds herself stroking his hair, and realizes – with some surprise – that she’s already forgiven him. “Damn you,” she whispers, knowing he’ll misinterpret her meaning but not caring at the moment.

“I am damned,” he agrees, finally releasing her. “That much is clear.” He wipes his eyes and continues. “My life has been a series of misfortunes, all determined by fate, all outside of my control, except…” he bravely, carefully takes her hands, “except for you, Lieutenant. You are the one bright spot in this awful existence I have been leading. My guardian angel, or very nearly, and I… I almost threw it away.” He lifts their joined hands and he kisses her knuckles while she stares on in mild shock.

She shakes her head, clearing it. “You're not going to make me feel sorry for you, Ichabod Crane. This isn't about you right now,” she says. She wants to pull her hands away, but can't seem to find the will.

“I was not looking for your pity,” he earnestly explains. “I was merely attempting to divulge some of the epiphanies I had while I was… away. Explaining my own stupidity in thinking being separated from you was the right thing to do.” He looks at her, so forlorn, so lost. He doesn't beg for her forgiveness with words, but his eyes plead with her. “I cannot apologize enough for my childish behavior, Miss Mills...”

“All right, shut up, I forgive you already,” she says, just now feeling the tears on her cheeks. She pulls her hands free to wipe her face. “However,” she sternly adds, “ _Never. Do that. Again._ ” She punctuates each word with a strong poke to his chest.

“Never,” he echoes, looking her straight in the eye. He looks down. “What did you do while I was away?” he quietly asks. “I see you are dressed differently and you no longer wear your badge...”

“ _Now_ you want to know?”

“I wondered every day,” he admits. “I thought of you… frequently.” _Constantly._

She takes a deep breath, almost not wanting to tell him, but decides that would be childish. “I went to Quantico. I'm an FBI agent now.”

“That's… that's wonderful!” he softly exclaims. “That was your dream… the dream I stole from you with my arrival...”

“You didn't steal anything, Crane,” Abbie sighs. “Greater good, yadda yadda yadda...” She waves her hand along with the words.

He nods. “You have always been better about that than I. You have always been able to put the needs of others before yourself. It is something at which I must learn to be better.”

A year ago, Abbie would have assured him that he was doing fine. That his priorities were in pretty good shape. Now, she simply says, “Yep.”

Her curt, bluntly honest response stings him, but he replies, “Thank you for your honesty.”

She gives him a knowing stare and says, “You know I am the one person in your life who has always been honest with you, Crane.”

“I do,” he replies, looking down again.

“That's not going to change.” She pokes his shoulder and he looks at her. “We need to be totally honest with each other. That _includes_ withholding information.”

“And disappearing, leaving nothing but a poorly-written note,” he says, guilt washing over him again.

“Especially that.” She takes a very deep breath and reaches across the table for her drink. “You're back then?”

He knows she means more than just his physical presence. She's making sure he is fully present, with her, and ready to fight the fight, committed to their cause. To _them_. He straightens his back and answers, “I am.”

“No more running away.”

“I promise.”

She sets her bottle down and raises both eyebrows, her expression silently asking, “Really?”

“Lieu— Miss Mills… Abbie…” Crane starts, no longer sure what to call her. “I vow to you that I shall never—”

“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh…” Abbie shushes him again, raising that blasted finger once more. He realizes how annoying it is to be on the receiving end of such a gesture and decides he must break himself of the habit forthwith. “Talk is cheap, Captain. You’re going to have to prove it with actions now.”

He nods once. “Understood. And I shall, I prom—” He stops his words when she raises her eyebrow at him. _Talk is cheap._ The words echo in his head.

“And you can still call me ‘Lieutenant’,” she adds, pronouncing it the way only he does. “I’ve missed it.” She hesitates, then admits, “I’ve missed you, too, you big jerk.”

He hugs her again, pulling her against his chest. “I missed you desperately, Lieutenant. More than I can express,” he says. “And thank you. You have no idea how much it means to have your forgiveness.” He leans down and kisses the top of her head.

“Don’t get too elated there,” she warns, leaning back so she can see him. “You still have to explain your actions to Jenny.”

His eyes widen in genuine fear. “Oh, dear God…”


	2. Chapter 2

Abbie finally offered Crane a beer after they dried their tears.

“Yes, thank y— no, wait...” Crane says, standing and heading to the door again. He pops back out onto the porch, grabs the cup of coffee he was drinking when she arrived and the bag that he had brought with him. “Kentucky Bourbon,” he pronounces, holding the bag aloft. “Straight from the Bluegrass State. I brought it as a sort of… peace offering.”

He follows her into the kitchen, where he pours out the now-cold coffee and throws the cup away while she pulls out two glasses. She motions for him to follow her back into the living room.

He removes his coat and hangs it on a hook near the door, then joins her on the couch, where he pours out a small amount of the brown liquid in each glass.

They drink. They drink again. On the second refill, Ichabod pours a larger measure into each glass and pauses, raising his in a toast. “To you, Grace Abigail Mills. To your success with the Federal Bureau of Investigations and to your forgiving nature, especially to those who do not deserve it. You are truly worthy of the name 'Grace', my dear, dear friend.”

She smiles and looks down, a bit embarrassed as she brings her drink to her lips, only sipping this time. Quality bourbon should not be tossed back like cheap bottom-shelf rot-gut. Crane does the same, taking a delicate sip, eyes closed.

“Thank you,” Abbie quietly says. He raises his glass again. “Crane...”

“May I always have the good fortune to have you call me 'friend' and 'partner', and may I never be foolish enough to leave your side again,” he says, stubbornly pressing on despite her protestations.

“That's not a toast, that's a wish,” she says, but takes another sip anyway.

“Well, as we have no red, white, and blue cupcake, this will have to suffice,” he replies.

They drink in silence for a few minutes. Abbie can't help but notice how _still_ he is. Gone are the fidgeting, flying fingers. He is still sitting like he has a rod shoved up his butt, but he seems more at peace. More _himself_. The self she glimpsed in 1781.

“You… you're okay then?” she asks at length.

“I am at peace with what has transpired, if that is what you are asking,” he replies. “I have said my goodbyes and exorcised any guilt I was feeling. I still stand by my statement about the choices we have all made. She made her choice, and therefore, so did I.” He takes a drink. “And I fully acknowledge that my choice to… bolt… was not a wise one.” He frowns into his glass.

Abbie sets her drink down. “We're not doing this,” she declares.

“Not doing what?” he asks.

“Not rehashing what you should or should not have done. It's done. You left, you came back. You apologized and I've forgiven you, okay? I'm not saying you don't have work to do, but you don't need to punish yourself anymore,” she says, her large brown eyes boring into him.

He nods. “I shall endeavor to try,” he says.

“You shall endeavor to do more than _try_ ,” she corrects, picking up her glass again. “This is good. You went to Kentucky?”

He nods again. “Lovely state. I rode a horse. It was wonderful,” he says, his eyes lighting up for the first time since he'd been there.

“I imagine it was, for you,” she says, smiling a little.

“Have you never ridden, Miss Mills?”

She cocks her head at him. “When would I have had an opportunity to ride a horse?” she asks.

“I suppose horses have become rather a luxury item now, haven't they?” he muses. “Pity.”

She shrugs lightly. “I can't miss what I never knew.”

“I would love to go riding with you some time. I could show you everything about horsemanship. I...”

She holds up her hand, chuckling. “One thing at a time, Crane,” she says, laughing. “Where else did you go?”

“New York, to the city. It was… baffling. I didn't stay.”

“I imagine the city would have eaten you alive,” Abbie says.

“It was simply too overwhelming,” he says. “So was Boston. And Philadelphia.” He shakes his head. “So many familiar things surrounded by the unfamiliar… I went to some cemeteries in Boston. I saw the ancient headstones with the names of men I considered friends, crumbling, covered in moss, nearly unreadable in some cases. I wept.”

Abbie reaches over and puts her hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Where else did you go?”

“From there I went west. Southwest. I decided to miss Washington, D.C., figuring it would be just as overwhelming.” He pauses, then ventures, “However, I believe I would risk it with your guidance.”

“Maybe,” she answers, liking the idea in theory but not ready to commit to it just yet.

He goes on, telling her about everything he saw, adding places he didn't go, always mentioning that _they_ should see the places he missed.

“I thought of you when I watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean,” he quietly finishes. “I thought of you every day. Many times a day.”

She pours them two fresh glasses. “Empty words, Crane, if you couldn't even be bothered to send a text,” she says. “Sorry. I said I'd forgiven you and I have. But… why? Why didn't you call or text, even once?”

He sighs and takes a long drink. “At first, it was pride. I thought I knew what was best. I thought since I needed some time alone, you likely did as well. I was thinking for you instead of talking to you, and that was wrong.” She nods, and he continues. “Then, it became shame. I was ashamed of disappearing and leaving you with only a poorly-worded note. I couldn't face your wrath, though I deserved it. After that, well, it had been _so_ long, that I simply felt foolish.”

“So you decided to come back and just wait for me on my front porch?” she asks. “What if I had moved? I was at Quantico, Crane, I could have been assigned anywhere. Hell, I could have been in Los Angeles while you were gazing over the Pacific Ocean and thinking of me.”

“You could have. But you were not.”

“You sound irritatingly confident about that.”

“Duty, Lieutenant. You take your role as a Witness very seriously. More seriously than I did, if I am totally honest, though it was originally I who convinced you of our fates. I fear I became distracted by personal matters...”

“Crane. Focus,” Abbie says, pulling him back.

“Yes. You know you are needed here, and so, partner or no, here you shall stay. Though things have thankfully been quiet all these months, you stay, because you do not trust that our fight is over,” Crane says. “Also, Miss Jenny must stay here because of the conditions of her release, and therefore, so must you.”

Abbie purses her lips and nods. “Keep being that logical and clear-headed about things, and we just might be okay,” she says. “But how do you know things have been quiet? How do you know I haven't been battling demons and monsters by myself?”

“Ah. Because you never contacted me. I knew the only thing that would compel you to reach out to me would be if Moloch or one of his Minions had risen. I understand why you never reached out to me, Abbie,” he answers.

“Good,” she says, glad she doesn't have to explain that she would be damned if she was going to chase after his ass after he bailed on her. “So what made you come back? Besides guilt.”

He chuckles, then turns serious. “The evening I watched the sunset, thinking of you, of us, of our bond as Witnesses, I realized that in my journey to find myself on my own, I discovered… well, I discovered I am not the man I could be – _should_ be – without you,” he earnestly answers.

“That's… a little co-dependent, but… kinda sweet,” she replies. “I hate to think that we've had to give up our independence for our mission, but,” she heaves a large sigh, “I know exactly what you are saying. There were times when I felt like I was missing a limb. Or, at the very least, my shadow.” She smiles, then drinks.

“An apt analogy,” he agrees, draining his glass and filling it again.

“Are you hungry? I'm hungry, and we've been drinking strong booze on empty stomachs,” she says, picking up her phone. “I'll order us a pizza.”

“That sounds wonderful. Please, allow me to purchase our dinner,” he says.

“Yeah, you're gonna have to tell me where you got this money to do this traveling yes, hi, I'd like to place an order for delivery,” she says, one sentence running into the other as the call connects.

He waits until she finishes ordering, noting how she doesn't need to ask what he wants, then says, “The first place I went after you left me that morning was the cave. Where I woke up. I wandered a bit, lost. Hoping there might be answers there. I found _something_ , but not answers.”

“Do not even tell me you found hidden treasure,” she says, setting her phone down with a thud.

He sheepishly smiles and nods. “General Washington had… funds… set aside for me. Once he found out where I was, he placed the necessary information there for me to find.”

“But I thought—”

“There was a letter. Apparently he found out where I was... interred, but kept Katrina's secret. I've no idea why.” He holds his glass up to the light and looks at the amber liquid swirling there. “All I had to do was go to the bank, unlock the safe deposit box, and cash in some accounts.”

“Damn,” Abbie says. “Do I want to know?”

“In total, it is a larger sum than I was able to comprehend at the time,” he says. “I do not know exactly how much is left at the moment. I must go there tomorrow and do some… reorganization. Will you help me?”

She hesitates a moment. “I suppose I can. Do you really need my help anymore?” It winds up being a weightier question than she realizes. As much as he was a drain on her financially and sometimes emotionally, she did miss being his Official Guide to the 21st Century.

“Always,” he answers with a small smile. “I would very much like your assistance, as I do not yet fully understand the current world of finance. I do not want to be swindled or talked into anything that would be detrimental to my accounts. You are the only person I trust enough, and I do not mind if you know the details. I am an open book, as far as you are concerned,” he says. “I believe it is you who recently called for total honesty.”

“That doesn't exactly mean telling me how much money you have, but if it's important to you, of course I'll help,” she replies.

“Thank you. I owe you so much, Miss Mills,” he says. “I have not said enough how deeply I appreciate all you have done for me.”

“You're welcome. You'd do the same for me, you know,” she says. “You did, too. Eventually.”

“You must tell me about your journey back,” he asks, realizing he hasn't even heard about that yet, he left so soon.

“Oh, boy, let's see...” she says, settling into the couch cushions. She pulls her feet up and tucks them under her.

She is just finishing her story when the pizza arrives. Ichabod was in turn horrified, angered, embarrassed, and touched by her tale. “It seems we are drawn together no matter when we meet,” he said, just as the doorbell rang.

Over pizza, he asks about Quantico.

“Well, getting accepted – again – turned out to be the easy part,” she starts. “The weird part was Joey Corbin was just finishing as I was starting. He's back here, too.”

Crane's eyebrows rise. “Is he? That's good news. Isn't it?”

“It is. He and Jenny… they're thicker than thieves,” Abbie says. “That's where she is right now – with him.”

“ _With_ him? Are they… um, romantically involved?” he hesitantly asks.

“No. Well, not yet. She's a few years older than he is, but he doesn't seem to mind since every time I see them together he's giving her heart eyes,” she answers. “He's helping her find out more about our ancestors, specifically the one in the vault that was turned to stone.”

“I cannot wait to hear all that you have learned,” he replies. “Later. First, I wish to know about your training. I have no doubt you excelled at everything.”

She smiles and looks down, confirming his theory. “It was hard, but rewarding. I learned so much. Had a little fling. Got into an argument with one of the instructors about American history; you'll appreciate that. Was top of the class every time on the shooting range,” she says, giving him a high-level overview before going into detail. Hoping he didn't catch her comment about the fling.

“Fling?” he asks.

 _Of course._ “You know… um, saw someone romantically for a short time. Come on, you could have had short, torrid affairs on the road,” she answers.

“I could have, but did not,” he insists. “There were several opportunities. I politely and respectfully turned them down.”

She unbends her leg and shoves him with her foot. “Don't be looking down your nose at me, Crane,” she says. “It's perfectly normal behavior these days.”

“I am aware,” he answers. “I am merely surprised. You said romantic relationships are a complication you do not need.”

“Yeah, that was when we were in the middle of a battle with a demon who wanted my soul and I was spending all my time with a guy who is over 250 years old. It's not fair to keep that kind of stuff from a significant other,” she explains. “None of that was happening. Daniel was cute, smart, and available. It was fun, but now it's over. I broke it off.”

“Why?”

“Because our battle _isn't_ finished, Ichabod. It's going to come back. You have no idea how many asses I kissed to get assigned to this area. I had to pull the Jenny card and everything,” she says.

“Is that all?” he asks. “I am not trying to pry, I am simply concerned that you are sacrificing your happiness for the greater good.”

“Okay, first, yes, I am sacrificing my happiness for the greater good. That's what we _do,_ don't you get it? That's why Katrina was a problem.” She stops, seeing the pained look on his face, then presses on. “Our individual happiness is inconsequential in comparison to the end of the world. It's simply the facts. Second, I _wasn't_ happy. It was fun while it lasted, but I… I don't know. Got bored? Maybe. I just knew it wasn't going anywhere. That's all. Sometimes that happens.”

“I understand,” Crane somberly answers. “I understand all that you have said, Lieutenant.” He takes a bite of pizza, chews it thoughtfully, and swallows before asking, “Please, continue. I wish to hear everything.”

She's switched to water, and takes a large drink before speaking again, telling him everything she can remember about Quantico, training, and her life in general while he was away, including how she told people Crane was a good friend who is “way into re-enactments” when they saw his photo on her phone and asked about him.

“I am sorry I caused you to lose sleep,” he says when she finishes. “Especially during such an important time in your life.”

“I'm used to losing sleep,” she answers. “It was the times I _did_ sleep that were worse actually. Apparently I talk in my sleep now.”

His eyes widen. “What did you say?”

She bites her lower lip. “According to my roommate, your name. A lot. And a lot of things that didn't make sense to her.” She brings her hands up over her face. “She even recorded me one night. It was mortifying. I was muttering things about Moloch, Henry… oh, God, flint and freaking _steel…_ wendigos… I heard something about Benjamin Franklin… and your name, of course.” _More times than I would care to admit._ “I deleted it from her phone before she got any ideas.”

“What an awful thing to do,” he says. “An invasion of your privacy.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” she replies. “Ugh, I was glad to be able to come back home.”

He thoughtfully pauses and then says, “Yes, as was I.”

Pizza consumed, they talk some more, catching up, reconnecting, and trading stories until it almost feels like they hadn't been apart for nearly a year.

Finally, Crane notices the time. “Oh, dear, it has grown late,” he says.

They clean up from the pizza, and Crane calls for a taxi, insisting that Abbie shouldn't inconvenience herself by driving him back to the cabin, nor would driving be advisable after the considerable amount of bourbon they consumed.

“I can pay rent to Master Corbin if that is his wish… or I suppose I should call him Mr. Corbin,” Crane says, feeling somewhat awkward standing just inside Abbie's front door waiting for his cab.

“Or Agent Corbin,” Abbie suggests, standing in front of him. “Or just Joe,” she adds, laughing. “I don't think he honestly cares, but I'll ask him if you want.”

“No, no, I can ask,” he assures her. “I do not wish to take advantage. I have missed it, and have come to think of it as home.”

She gives a half shrug and says, “Maybe he'll sell it to you.”

He half-smiles. “But there are no granite countertops,” he says.

She laughs, looking down, then up, remembering that day. “Granite countertops are overrated, Crane. Too much maintenance,” she says, laughing more when she sees his face fall a little.

“Oh,” he says.

“Well, if you've got mad cash, you can remodel,” she suggests, reaching out and straightening his lapel. _Old habits die hard._

He nods, then looks out the small windows on either side of her front door. “I am happy to be back, Lieutenant. Happy to be with you once again,” he says, still facing the window, like he cannot summon the courage to say these words to her face. “I know I have already said this, but I missed your company more than I can say. I was thankful for my eidetic memory, for it allowed me to summon the image of your face, the sound of your voice…” He finally looks at her. “But a memory is poor company, and an even poorer substitute for the real, flesh-and-blood Abbie Mills.” His voice is velvety and low.

She blinks, wondering when and how he got so close. She's had a fair amount to drink, but she knows it's not the bourbon that is making her feel a bit lightheaded and overwhelmed. “I missed you, too. A lot. More than I expected to,” she replies, nearly whispering. “Never leave again,” she adds. “Not without me, anyway.”

“I won't. I promise,” he says. He is nearly overcome with an impulse, something he's thought of more than once in the past, something that he's thought of with increasing frequency as he traveled closer and closer to Sleepy Hollow. As he stares down into her upturned face in the dimly-lit foyer, he decides to give in and take whatever consequence he earns.

He leans down and kisses her lips. It is a small kiss, but so full of feeling that when they part, they are both a little dazed. An apology is on the tip of his tongue when she pounces, kissing him back, her hands coming up under his arms to hold his shoulders.

His long arms wrap around her like a blanket and she finds herself pulled flush against him, her head tilted almost completely back. She hardly notices, kissing him just as desperately as he is her.

She feels so good in his arms, like he is finally a complete person. He deepens the kiss and she makes a lovely little sighing sound as her tongue meets his and her grip tightens on his shoulders.

The taxi honks its horn outside, bringing them back to earth.

“We should have done that earlier,” Crane breathes, his nose skimming the side of hers.

“Maybe,” she replies. “Though I might have punched you some more if you'd tried earlier.”

“Will I be pummeled if I try again?” he quietly asks, his lips a hair's breadth from hers.

“Only by the cab driver,” she answers with a smile.

“Oh, sod the bloody driver. He can wait another minute,” he rumbles, kissing her smiling lips.

**Author's Note:**

> At the time this was written, we only knew Crane left for a time. We didn't know where he had gone.


End file.
